Never Make Plans with a Stoner

Many of my friends are stoners. I don’t know what this says about me. Probably nothing. I’m not a stoner, nor do I look down on those that partake of the wacky tabaccy. But I try to not judge. Whatever floats your boat, man.

To me, the worst thing about stoners is the recruiting. If they spent as much of their time and energy on a creative endeavor as they do on trying to convert everyone they know into a weed-smoking groovy hepcat, maybe they could quit their job at Subway and try to make something of their life. Just sayin’.

My best friend is a stoner, but he’s a relatively recent convert, which is worse than your long-time stoner in my opinion. All that fucker does all day is smoke out and talk about weed and bongs. It’s boring.

I drink, but I don’t spend the entire fucking day talking about alcohol because I don’t want to bore the tits off every person I encounter.

Never make arrangements with a stoner, particularly in the midst of them getting high. You will regret it as you stand out the front of a coffee shop in the rain, looking like a total numpty as you check the time on your phone. They agreed to something while in a THC-induced haze, it meant nothing to them.

Maybe I should become one, just like them. Maybe then I could finally appreciate the music of Tool and Cypress Hill, the films of Seth Rogen and Kevin Smith.

Nah.

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